


Overboard

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos has an annoying encounter in the street with an idiot nobleman, after which an opportunity arises for some comeuppance.</p><p>Musketeers meets Overboard  with the living situation of 2011 Steampunk Musketeers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Without exception Porthos loathed walking the streets of Paris, but never more so than on a market day in les Halles when there was twice as much excrement as mud making up the surface of the road.

On the way to his tailor to have some new shirts made, he was busy talking to Aramis and d'Artagnan when he was knocked to the ground by an idiot on a brute of a black horse, falling on his arse in the channel of slurry, much to the amusement of his companions.

"Oi!" he shouted as the well dressed stranger paid him no heed whatsoever and made to ride off. Porthos righted himself and, as quick as a flash, grabbed a firm hold of the headcollar, being careful to mind the horse’s vicious teeth. "Have you no manners?"

The man looked down at him, bleary eyed but taking in Porthos’ filthy appearance with a smirk. "I may be lacking in social graces, but at least I have the good sense to look where I’m going."

"An apology wouldn't go amiss," said Porthos.

"Then I accept yours wholeheartedly and suggest we both be on our way," said the stranger. 

Aramis laughed. "He has you there."

Porthos' hackles rose. "I am Porthos of the King's Musketeers and I challenge you to a duel."

The man remained rather precariously in his saddle. "Olivier, Comte de la Fère, at your service. I would oblige, but I have no inclination to fight with mudlarks."

With that he rode away, bespattering Porthos with muck and leaving him with steam coming out of his ears. "The arrogant brass necked dandy. Who does he think he is?"

"The Comte de la Fère," said d'Artagnan helpfully.

"Porthos, Porthos, Porthos, why would you even think of duelling with a member of the nobility?" said Aramis, clapping a hand around his shoulder. "Especially one who was so sozzled from wine he could barely remain seated on his horse."

"Idiot man. Now I have to go home and change before I can even see my tailor," complained Porthos as the three of them did an about turn in the street and headed back to their shared lodgings.

Arriving at the house they were surprised to see Captain Treville waiting for them, seated by the remains of a long deceased fire.

"Captain," said Aramis. "Can we pour you a cup of wine?"

I wouldn’t eat or drink in this pig sty," said the captain, looking around him in disgust. "This place is worse than a shambles. You should be ashamed of yourselves for living in such squalor. Where’s your manservant?"

"The last one left months ago," admitted d'Artagnan with his eyes to the floor. "Said it was the work of ten men to clean up after us."

"It appears he was right," said Treville, looking around him again. "Now Porthos, I hear you’ve been challenging civilians to duels in the street."

Porthos was astounded. It had been no time at all since his encounter with the infuriating comte. Did the captain have nothing better to do than follow them around the streets of Paris all day?

"You must be mistaken, sir, because that would be illegal," said Aramis stepping in to help his friend out.

The captain stood and fixed them in turn with a beady eye. "Make sure it stays that way," he said. "And get someone to clean for you with immediate effect."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," said d'Artagnan, the newest and keenest member of the regiment.

With the captain now departed, they looked around at the mess and then at each other.

"What should we do?" said Aramis dolefully. "We've been through every servant in Paris. No one will skivvy for us."

"We could always try cleaning up ourselves," suggested d'Artagnan.

The others looked at him in horror. "But that's lackey's work," said Aramis.

"Something'll come up," said Porthos brightly as he refilled three dirty cups from an open bottle. "It always does." 

 

\---

 

Next morning, when they arrived at the garrison, there was a commotion going on.

"What's all this?" said Porthos as he looked at a drowned rat of a figure, huddled against the wall and clutching his head.

"Moline and I pulled him half-dead out of the Seine," said Portier. "He's got a lump the size of a hen’s egg on his skull; he's carrying nothing to identify himself and hasn’t an inkling as to who he is."

A familiar pair of eyes looked mournfully up at Porthos. There was no glimmer of recognition in them and the big man grinned as an idea popped into his head. "Well, if it's none other than our new lackey," he said, looking down at the bedraggled Comte de la Fère. "I told you not to pay his wages in advance, Aramis. He was bound to make a fool of himself."

"But-" said d'Artagnan.

"But how lucky indeed that you recovered him for us," interrupted Aramis, always happy to play along with a joke.

"My office now," boomed Captain Treville from above. "All four of you."

Dragging the shivering comte to his feet, Aramis and Porthos frogmarched him up the stairs with d'Artagnan following on behind, looking more than a little uncomfortable with the situation.

Porthos knew he had to play this carefully because one direct question would have the lad crumbling and confessing all to his beloved commander.

"Your manservant, you say?" said Treville, staring the comte up and down.

"Yes, captain. Indentured as well and we have his papers to prove it." Porthos stood, hands clasped behind his back. Growing up in the Cours des Miracles had made him an astoundingly good liar when need arose. "We found him in les Halles yesterday, just as you suggested."

Those bloodshot eyes peered helplessly at Porthos and for a moment he felt a twinge of guilt, but it soon receded when he remembered the arrogant bastard's behaviour yesterday.

"What is your name?" Treville asked the man.

"I’m afraid I don't know," he said in a refined voice, another part of the plan which could come a cropper if Porthos wasn't careful.

"Idiot," he said, cuffing him. "He's known as Athos. He's as thick as a mountain and it suits him well enough."

"Take him home, dry him off and put him to work," said Treville. "I've had enough of this nonsense for one day."

"Yes, sir," said Porthos cheerily. "Come on, boys."

 

\---

 

Under duress from the others, Porthos conceded that their new manservant 'Athos' should at least be allowed fresh clothing before he was given a list of tasks to perform. 

Afterwards the comte looked warily at them, a member of the nobility no more. Wearing some of Aramis' old breeches, which had long since seen better days, and a pair of down at heel boots, the ludicrous outfit was topped off with a torn shirt that had once belonged to Porthos, but was now more fitting as an enormous duster.

"I am grateful, thank you," he said in unconvincing fashion.

Having hidden a suspiciously well tailored set of clothes at the bottom of the rag bag, Porthos sat in a fireside chair and slung his feet up onto the fender. "Fetch some water from the well then heat it on the range,” he ordered. “After that you’ll wipe the dishes, clean the house and prepare dinner. Do you understand?"

The man looked at him a moment, head cocked to one side, and Porthos was convinced the jig was up. He then, however, nodded and knuckled down to his tasks, carrying out Porthos' demands inefficiently, but with a plucky spirit about him that, it had to be said, was quite admirable.

"How long will we be able to keep this up?" whispered d'Artagnan, who was starting to come around to the idea after seeing fresh linens appear on his bed for the first time in months.

"Not long I should imagine," murmured Aramis. "His memories are bound to come back to him soon."

"But in the meantime I intend to get all I can out of our tame nobleman." Porthos grinned. "Boy, fetch us some wine," he shouted. "You'll need to go to the merchant's. We're out."

By evening Athos had managed to prepare them an adequate meal from the larder, had cleaned up afterwards and was clearly on the point of exhaustion.

“Where do I sleep?” he asked.

Porthos threw him a bedroll. “On the balcony,“ he said kicking open the doors. “You snore less in the fresh air.”

Athos looked dubiously at the tiny outside space.

“Go on,” said Porthos, encouraging him with a hand to his back. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“You can’t make him stay out there,” said d’Artagnan, when Pothos had closed the doors. “It’s cold.”

“He’s got a blanket,” said Porthos, dismissively. “He’ll be fine.” 

 

\---

 

Everyday that the ruse continued Porthos grew a little more conflicted. Free from the influence of wine, Athos turned out to be a thoroughly pleasant fellow and, as time passed by, this whole thing was becoming less of a joke and more of a grand deception.

The problem was that Athos’ grim determination to succeed made him an excellent servant and his domestic skills increased no end. The house had become a most pleasant place to live in. They had good meals and clean clothes provided for them. The bills were always paid on time and there was no longer the threat of debt collectors knocking at the door.

In fact Athos was such a perfect lackey it came as a shock to them the day he went off to market and didn’t return at the expected hour to prepare their supper.

“Where is he?” said Porthos, pacing the floor. “Suppose someone has set upon him again.” It was discomforting to think that anything bad might have befallen the man.

“Perhaps his memories have returned and he’s angry with us,” said d’Artagnan.

Porthos felt sick at the very idea. As soon as the time was right he would tell Athos what had happened to him. He would explain that, out of the goodness of their hearts, they’d taken him in after he’d been mugged on the streets. It was almost the truth, bar one minor detail.

In the small hours of the morning Athos eventually rolled up, blind drunk, stumbling around like a fool and bouncing off every piece of furniture in the house.

Porthos had been so full of concern for the man’s welfare that he hadn’t yet managed a wink of sleep, but he stormed down from his bedchamber, full of righteous indignation as if he’d been awoken by the devil himself. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry,” slurred Athos. “I smelled jasmine. I saw a woman. I don’t even know who she was because I can’t remember.”

“You’re making no sense whatsoever,” said Porthos, pushing the man out to his balcony accommodations. “Sleep it off.” He was upset, but had no idea as to why.

Next morning it was a bleary eyed and miserable manservant who set about his morning tasks, weary of life and full of despondency.

“You look disgraceful,” said Porthos, leaning outside to fetch in the big wooden bucket which had an inch of ice on the top. He smashed through the solid layer with a fist and placed the bucket in front of Athos. “What you normally do to freshen up after a night on the tiles is to stick your head in there.”

Athos looked askance at him, his face pale, his expression one of dismay. “No!”

“ _Porthos_ ,” said Aramis in an amused voice.

“Best hangover cure going,” said Porthos, snorting with laughter when Athos knelt obediently and stuck his head in the bucket.

A minute or two later, when he was still submerged, Porthos grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him up. “You’re not supposed to drown yourself,” he said to the miserable looking specimen before him. “Now run along and make us breakfast.”


	2. Chapter 2

Thankfully there were no more repeat performances of drunk and disorderly behaviour and soon all four of them settled into a comfortable routine. 

Porthos found himself spending a lot of time with Athos, helping out with the domestic chores whilst enjoying the man’s company, and he wasn’t the only one with whom a bond of friendship had begun to form.

“Not like that,” said Athos as d’Artagnan was practicing his cut and thrust in the courtyard. “Let me show you what I mean.”

Porthos watched as the two of them danced around each other, skidding around on the snow covered cobbles with Athos easily outmanoeuvring the younger man.

“You’re a fantastic swordsman,” said d’Artagnan, dipping his head in respect.

“I didn’t even know,” said Athos, clearly mystified. “I wonder what else I can do? I think I hunt with hounds. I vaguely remember a castle and estate.”

“Probably where you worked before,” said Porthos, keen to explain away any discrepancies.

“I’m certain I remember your faces,” said Athos, “but I don’t know this house. I’m beginning to doubt my memories will ever fully come back to me.” All of a sudden he looked downcast and tired. “I must go to the market. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

 

\---

 

It had been weeks now and a large amount of guilt was beginning to rest on Porthos’ broad shoulders. Watching Athos trudge off up the icy street he turned to speak to his companions. “I think we should tell him.”

“Tell him what?” said d’Artagnan stubbornly. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“We know who he is and we can’t keep deceiving him,” said Porthos.

“On the other hand,” said Aramis, looking around at the house which was as neat as a pin. “He seems happy enough here and we treat him well.”

“But he’s not our servant,” said Porthos. “He’s the Comte de la Fère.”

“This is true, but our home is a pleasure to live in and it’s not as if we’re hurting him,” said Aramis, and then he looked slyly at Porthos. “Do you _really_ want him to leave here for good?”

Porthos didn’t answer. He would miss Athos terribly when the truth finally came out, but only because the man had evolved from enemy to servant to friend. Nothing more sinister than that.

“The snow’s falling again,” he said, keen to change the subject. “It seems this winter is determined to be a bad one.”

When Athos returned from market he was as rosy cheeked and vacant as if he’d been at the drink again which didn’t please Porthos in the slightest. He’d been worrying about the man having to venture out in the freezing temperatures dressed only in a linen shirt and a thin cloak and had made up his mind to buy him more suitable clothing, but why should he do that when wages were being wasted on wine?

Carrying out his chores under a lugubrious silence, Athos slowly collected his bedroll from the corner and went to open the balcony doors.

“You can sleep inside tonight as it’s snowing,” said Porthos brusquely, but Athos didn’t appear to hear him, at very least didn’t heed his words, and Porthos glowered, only looking up at the sound of a body falling to the floor.

“Athos!” He knelt beside the man and touched a hand to his forehead to discover that he was burning with fever and lifting him into his arms he carried him up the stairs.

“Not the bucket. Not the bucket, please,” muttered Athos and despite his worries Porthos laughed.

“Not the bucket tonight. You’re sick. You can sleep in my bed.”

“I’d like that,” said Athos and pressed himself against Porthos’ chest. “There was a bed with feathers like snow and forget me nots. I killed her,” he sobbed.

“Aramis,” called Porthos in a panic. “I need your help. Athos is ill.”

Aramis emerged from his bedchamber where he had been enjoying some female company. “Lay him down,” he said as Porthos carried him into his own room. “Lift his shirt.”

Shivering violently Athos clung to Porthos’ hand, looking up at him with bright eyes as Aramis examined him carefully. 

“It’s alright. Soon be over,” soothed Porthos, praying there was no prescience to his words.

“I was worried because there’s both typhus and yellow fever in Paris at present and he could easily have caught either of these in the crowded conditions at les Halles.” Aramis pulled down the shirt, tucking the blanket around the sick man, then looked inside his mouth. “You’ll be glad to know there’s no sign of anything worse than swelling inside the throat and a high fever.”

“What can we do?” said Porthos.

“Keep him warm, give him water and wait for the sickness to break,” said Aramis. “I could get the surgeon to bleed him, but I don’t see it’ll do anything other than cause distress.”

“There must be something that could help,” said Porthos.

“There’s a tincture I’ll fetch from the apothecary tomorrow which will bring down his fever. Other than that, no. Keep an eye out for spots or pustules and tell me immediately if you see any sign of them.” Aramis rested a hand on Porthos’ forearm. “He’s still a very sick man, my friend. It's quite likely throat distemper. Do not count on his recovery.”

Porthos could not listen to such negativity and made a vow to stay with Athos until he was better. Sitting on the side of the bed he bathed Athos’ forehead, feeding him sips of water from a spoon, and when the ramblings diminished and he fell into an agitated sleep, Porthos climbed in next to him and let him rest in his arms. 

“If this turns out to be a communicable disease then you’ll be in trouble,” Aramis reprimanded him when he found them tucked up together in the morning.

“It’s my fault he’s in a position to catch such an illness and therefore I’ll gladly share it with him,” said Porthos.

“A gallant but ridiculous sentiment if ever I heard one.” Aramis leant over the bed to examine the patient. “His fever is down a little. You may yet have a chance to tell him the truth.”

Porthos glowered at his friend and put a finger to his lips. He would confess to Athos in his own time and did not wish him to find out by any other means.

“I’ll tell d’Artagnan to fetch some broth,” continued Aramis. “Treville will be expecting you at the garrison today. Nursing one’s lackey is no excuse for missing duty.”

“Then tell Treville I have the ague,” said Porthos. “Because I’m staying right here.”

“Porthos, these feelings of yours are dangerous ones,” said Aramis, his mouth close to Porthos’ ear, his voice hushed. “This relationship is based entirely on a lie. Athos believes he is indentured to you and that you are his master. Would you want him to sleep with you because he feels an obligation to do so?”

Porthos sighed. He would not want that for the world and taking heed of Aramis’ advice he left the warmth of the bed. His affection for the man could no longer be denied, but it must be ignored.

Athos reached for him, curling into the space he’d left behind whilst mumbling more of his nonsense, and Porthos caught hold of his hand as comfort. He would not lie with him, but neither would he leave him for any length of time.

 

\---

 

It took a full fortnight for Athos to recover, but eventually he was well enough to resume his domestic servitude which was something that preyed heavily on Porthos’ mind. 

“There is perhaps a way out of this situation,” said Aramis, accurately reading Porthos’ thoughts as they watched Athos do the laundry.

“The only thing I can do is muster some courage and tell him the truth,” said Porthos glumly. “I think it would be better for me if he were gone. You are right. I’ve grown overly fond of him.”

“And I believe those feelings are reciprocated,” said Aramis. “I watch the way you are together and I see something complete.”

The words sent Porthos into a spin: ecstatic that it could be true and yet, at the same time, terrified it would disintegrate the moment Athos found out about his deceitful behaviour.

“He’s an outstanding swordsman, as d’Artagnan pointed out,” said Aramis. “He would be an asset to the regiment if both he and Treville could be persuaded of the fact.”

“And the lie would no longer seem quite so bad,” said Porthos. Jumping up he grabbed Aramis’ hand and shook it firmly. “I’ll suggest it to him now.”

If Aramis was still watching from the window then he would have been party to a very tender moment between the two men. Athos, delighted at the idea of having something other than menial tasks to do, clasped Porthos’ hands between his and Porthos, overwhelmed by Athos’ reaction, pressed a single kiss to his lips. It was all he could do not to allow the fire between them to ignite.


	3. Chapter 3

Having witnessed Athos’ skills Treville was more than happy to let him train with the company, but as time went on the commander was increasingly baffled by the odd situation.

“This is most untoward,” he said to Porthos as they watched his progress from the gantry. “Where did you say you found him again?”

“Les Halles,” said Porthos shiftily.

Treville looked suspicious, but wasn’t foolish enough to take issue over the origins of such a useful soldier. “I’ve made a request to the palace to have him presented before the King. In the meantime I suggest you find yourselves a new manservant to prevent your lodgings from turning into the usual sty.”

“Yes, sir.” Porthos fixed his gaze on Athos who was sparring with Benoit and outsmarting him with every hold and throw.

“Perhaps you should show him how it’s done,” suggested Treville. “Bring the new boy down a peg or two.”

Buckling on his padded jerkin, Porthos took over as Athos’ sparring partner and they faced off against one another, wary but excited at the idea of grappling together on the mats. The gentle touch of hands and mouths was one thing, but this was another matter entirely. 

Athos was a good fighter, wiry and strong with a potential for speed that took even Porthos by surprise, but he did not match Porthos’ capabilities and soon he was down on the straw, his body tucked between Porthos’ legs, breathing fast and looking up at him with dilated eyes. It was all too tempting and Porthos was busy thinking about what might yet come from it when Athos took advantage of his loss of concentration, bucking him off and forcing him into submission with some lightning quick moves.

“Well done, Athos,” said Treville sometime later as the long sparring session was reaching a climax. He was in his customary position, leaning over the balustrade, but this time he was holding a furled paper in his hand. “I’ve just had word from the palace that you’re to be presented to the King tomorrow to receive your commission. You’ve earned your place in the regiment.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Athos, but it was at Porthos he was looking, his hard cock pressing against Porthos’ own erection. 

They made it as far as the seclusion of the armoury before falling on one another for kisses, deep and driving, licking into each other’s mouths. Hot and sweaty they stumbled together, shoved into the corner of a small store room, jostling each other ever nearer that unsettling edge, aroused to the point of coming just from kissing and rough contact.

“Enough,” groaned Athos. “Enough.” He grabbed hold of Porthos' jacket, and Porthos wasn’t sure whether he was pushing him away or pulling him in closer. Perhaps it was a little of both. “You held my hand when I was sick.”

“I held you in my arms all night,” admitted Porthos. “I would do it now. Hold you naked against me.” 

“Porthos,” breathed Athos. “I’d fall to my knees and suck you off right here, but we can’t. It’s a sin and it’s illegal. Tomorrow I’m to be made a Musketeer and I must pledge honour to the King.”

“And for that you must be honourable,” said Porthos, “which this isn’t.”

Athos shook his head. “Though it’s everything I want,” he confessed.

“I’ll kiss you once more,” said Porthos, “then this will be forgotten and we’ll be comrades.” It was the right thing to do. Legality and sin notwithstanding, he’d duped Athos into this situation and passion may have grown from it, but it was rooted in rocky ground.

They kissed softly at first, but heat flared and with arms and legs entwined they connected in all the perfect places, grinding together until Athos succumbed, moaning out his pleasure into Porthos’ mouth with Porthos following on a moment later.

 

\---

 

“You look familiar, Musketeer,” said the King as Athos stood before the royal couple having received his commission into the regiment. “Do those blue eyes not seem familiar to you, my dear?” he said to the Queen.

“Perhaps a little, except that they are most definitely green,” said Queen Anne.

“Ridiculous, Anne, you can see quite clearly the colour and they are blue,” said the King petulantly “What say you, Richelieu?”

“Blue, Sire,” said the Cardinal, without even a glance.

The King looked smug. “I still say you are familiar,” he said, addressing Athos. “Where are you from?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea, Your Majesty,” admitted Athos. “I was beaten badly and, as a result, am suffering from amnesia.”

“How funny?” snorted the King. “I should rather like that. I could forget all about Gaston and my mother. It would be most amusing.”

With the King quickly losing interest in military matters and lost memories they were soon dismissed from court. Athos received his pauldron from Treville and as Porthos buckled the leather shoulder guard into place they regarded each other cautiously.

“Honour be damned,” said Athos in a low voice. “I know what I want.”

From that moment on Porthos was high from expectation and joyful to the point of exuberance. After an entire night spent celebrating at the tavern, Aramis and d’Artagnan carted Athos triumphantly home on raised shoulders and when they arrived at the house Porthos collected him from the other two and drew him into his own arms.

“This goes no further than here,” he said in warning as he and Athos took to the stairs.

“I swear,” said Aramis and d’Artagnan nodded in understanding.

Once in the bedroom they fell on each other again, stripping away clothing until they were naked then falling between the sheets, hands gripping each other’s cocks.

“I've never slept with another man,” said Porthos. “Why does it feel so right?”

Athos straddled Porthos, taking hold of them both and working them off together in a spit wet fist. “Because it is.” 

 

\---

 

They were a close knit family, living harmoniously together in that small house on Rue Allent. Porthos and Athos did most of the chores, but the boys were happy enough to turn a hand to things if needs be and no one ever came back from an assignment to find the place in total disarray.

Every facet of their new life as a couple was an utter joy, but most fun of all was to be found in the bedroom where they spent hours learning, in intricate detail, the dishonourable art of sex between two men and, more recently, the finer points of sodomy.

"It doesn't seem such a terrible thing to me," said Porthos as he lay spent inside Athos, their bellies wet from sweat and semen.

"But doesn't lend itself to the making of babies," smirked Athos. "Therefore it’s as much frowned upon as onanism."

"And all men do that often enough without being flogged," grinned Porthos. "Unless they want it, that is."

He was as elated as he had ever been and the lie, that had once loomed so large, was now a rarity in his thoughts. After all, his beauty of a man was born to be a soldier and, as Aramis had once mooted, together they were complete.

"We must bathe," Porthos said, shouting downstairs for Aramis to put the copper on. "At least have a strip wash. We can't go to the garrison like this. I'm covered in you." It had been an exhausting but pleasure filled night.

"And I you, just the way it should be," said Athos, nuzzling into the junction of neck and shoulder and branding him with kisses.

"You can't be ready for more," laughed Porthos, taking Athos' face in his hands and kissing him soundly on the mouth.

"I could at that," Athos murmured. "I love you and I want you always."

"I love you too," said Porthos, his heart bursting with happiness. "To hell with it, we'll spend the day in bed," he declared. "D'Artagnan will tell them we were delayed in Rheims. Everyone always believes the boy."

Of course neither man had the serious intention of crying off duty and after a spell of prolonged kisses they arrived naked in the kitchen, ready for a splash in the tub.

"Do either of you ever spend a moment of the day in each other's company without being at full cockstand?" laughed Aramis. "I'm sorely tempted to try out the delights of a man after seeing the aphrodisiac effect it has on the pair of you."

"I heartily recommend it," said Athos as he knelt in the bath and began to wash Porthos with the soap. "But you're not sharing mine."

"What about it, d'Artagnan?" said Aramis, clasping hold of the young man and spinning him around the room then lifting him as if they were performing a Volta. "Will you be my lover?"

"I wonder what the captain would say if he saw us compromised this way," laughed d'Artagnan, fighting to be set down.

"Bugger the captain," said Porthos as he lay back in Athos' arms having his hair washed and then he snorted with laughter at his own words. "You understand I don't mean that literally."

After bath time was over and breakfast was eaten, the four men made their way to the garrison, discussing what exciting line of guard duty lay in store for them today.

They were sitting at the benches, cleaning weapons and awaiting orders, when a stranger rode in through the gates, leading behind him a feisty looking black horse.

"Monsieur le Comte," he said in sheer relief as he dismounted and passed the reins of the spare horse to Athos. It whickered with delight and pressed it's nose to Athos' forehead. "I've been searching for you for months. The estate is falling into ruin and things cannot continue this way." He dropped a heavy necklace into Athos' hand. "A messenger delivered this and the horse to me at la Fère with instructions to say that you could be found here at the garrison."

"Remi!" said Athos, staring at the stranger then back at the locket in his hand with a bewildered expression on his face. "It’s Remi from home." He surveyed his friends. "I am the Comte de la Fère..." Gazing at Porthos his face then fell a mile. "But you knew all along. You're that muddy soldier who hates me."

"Athos," said Porthos in quiet despair and in this public place he could do nothing more than lay a hand on his arm. "It's not what you think."

"You were angry with me and you made me your servant." Athos pulled free, looking at him in distress as the memories came flooding back. He stared accusingly at all three men around the table. "You knew this and you let me believe..." 

"Athos, please. We can explain," said Aramis.

"There is no such person," said Athos. "I'll get my belongings from the house and go." His eyes closed for a moment. "No, because nothing there is mine," he said and without uttering another word, he and Remi mounted up and rode out of the garrison gates.

"Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan," barked a voice from above. "Get in here now."

Porthos, by now the most desolate of men, trooped up the steps after the others. Treville, by rights, would be angry with him, but the captain would never know the half of it and could not realise how furious he was with himself.

"Explain what has just happened," snapped Treville. "Explain why one of my best soldiers has just ridden away from here without so much as a by your leave and why he appeared to be so upset when he left."

"We duped him and the lie has been found out," said Porthos, desperate now to confess his sins. "He is the Comte de la Fère: the nobleman I challenged to a duel. He slighted me in the street and when he turned up at the garrison with amnesia I decided to play a trick on him."

"It was only meant to be a short lived joke," said Aramis. "We assumed his memories would return swiftly as in most other cases."

"We thought he’d be cross with us and then return home," said d'Artagnan. "But that didn't happen and we grew to like him."

"I didn't know how to tell him the truth," said Porthos, wallowing in his misery. "And the longer it went on, the more impossible it became to right the wrong."

"The Comte de la Fère, eh," said Captain Treville thoughtfully and for a long while that was all he had to say on the matter. 

It was not the response Porthos had been expecting. He assumed he would be receiving a flogging at the very least. Deceiving a member of the nobility in this way must surely be considered an offence of the highest order.

"We’re all to blame, sir," said Aramis eventually.

"Indeed you are," agreed Treville. "In fact I suggest the three of you put your heads together and decide on a way to make amends. You're dismissed."

Porthos left the commander's office, by now as confused as he was upset. "Why has he let us leave without punishment?" he asked his friends who, for some unknown reason, were heading to the stables rather than the gates.

"So we can go and fetch Athos back," said d'Artagnan, tacking up his horse.

"Oh no," said Porthos, taking a step back. "No, because that's not happening. Did you not see how upset he was was with me?"

"Upset rather than angry," said Aramis patiently. "And did you not see how utterly joyless he was when he remembered his true life?"

Up until then Porthos had been too busy cringing to re-examine the moment in detail, but now that Aramis had pointed it out he realised that Athos hadn’t seemed in the slightest bit happy: resigned perhaps, obliged for certain, but a long way from joyful at the news.

"Hurry up, Porthos," said d'Artagnan, already in his saddle. "We're going on a rescue mission."


	4. Chapter 4

If the three men had been more level headed and a little less impetuous then they would have checked the map room for the precise location of la Fère before departing. Instead, knowing only that their destination lay somewhere north of Paris, they rode around in circles, eventually, after two days of arguing and interrogating fellow travellers, arriving at the estate.

At any other time Porthos would have been put off by the vast acreage of lands and grand exterior of the chateau, but today he was anxious to see Athos and, leaping from his horse, he pushed open the double doors and marched uninvited into the house.

Expecting to find the Comte de la Fère resurrected in all his dandified glory instead he found a bedraggled figure slumped against the wall, a bucket of ice water beside him, his hair dripping wet. He was a sorry, hungover sight.

“I know that I've wronged you in the worst of ways,” said Porthos, striding over to stand in front of Athos. “But I’m glad I did so for if not then we would never have known one another. Being without you would be like living without air or water. I can’t do it.”

“I don’t want to be Comte,” said Athos, looking up at him through wet lashes. “I want to be a Musketeer.”

“My Musketeer,” said Porthos, his voice cracking with pent up emotion and leaning over he caught hold of Athos’ hands and pulled him to upwards into his arms. “Athos of the King’s Musketeers.” 

The kiss to reacquaint themselves with one another was guarded at first, but nerves soon flew out the window, and as Athos shivered in his arms, Porthos rid him of the wet shirt and was making short work of the buttons on his breeches, when the cough from behind them acted as reminder that they were not alone in the room.

“Make yourselves useful,” said Athos, looking around at Aramis and d’Artagnan with an amused look on his face. “The servants here are long gone, so light the fires and prepare us some food.”

“I suppose we deserve this treatment,” admitted Aramis as he and d’Artagnan trudged off to find the kitchens.

“I deserve it most of all,” muttered Porthos, his hand inside breeches and small clothes, wrapped firmly around Athos’ cock.

“Don’t worry, I intend to make you pay.” Athos leaned into him, forehead resting against his shoulder.

“In what form of currency would that be?” asked Porthos, dropping to his knees and tugging at Athos’ breeches and underthings until his cock sprang free of its confines. 

Athos tangled his fingers into Porthos’ hair and looked down at him, eyes wide with arousal as Porthos plastered him with delicate kisses.

“You want more of my mouth?” said Porthos artfully, barely touching Athos now. “You want me to suck your pretty cock so hard until you beg me to let you come? You want that?”

Gasping with pleasure Athos traced the outline of Porthos’ mouth with a thumb, drawing it open and then moaning as Porthos suckled at the fleshy pad. His cock rested against Porthos’ cheek, hot and hard and leaking. 

It was a battle of wills to see who would succumb first to temptation and, in the end, it was Athos who gave in. With a low growl he tightened his grip on Porthos hair, holding him firmly in place as he slid gracefully into his mouth and down his throat. 

Porthos, with no small amount of enjoyment, let himself be used, enjoying the sting of the friction and the salt sweet trickle of fluid down his gullet as Athos fucked his mouth thoroughly, pulling out at the last second to douse him liberally with come.

“I’ll get you for that,” grinned Porthos, getting to his feet and stripping Athos until he was naked. “You said something when you were feverish about a feather bed?”

“I have one of those,” said Athos and tenderly he wiped the streaks of semen from Porthos’ face with his hand.

Catching those fingers in his mouth Porthos licked them clean, growling with excitement at the taste. “Bed,” he insisted. “Or I’ll have you here on the floor.”

They kissed all the way to the chamber, Porthos stripping off on the way and enjoying the tingle of power as Athos hardened against him from their usual barging of bodies. 

“You’re always ready for me,” he groaned as he pushed Athos back onto the wine stained bedspread, hefting him up onto all fours and spreading him open with wet fingers. “So good,” he groaned as he fucked into him and then stilled, absorbing the heat and the flicker of a pulse and the pull of being inside.

Resting a hand on the small of Athos’ back he eased in, taking him slowly and with deliberate intent, knowing exactly the ways that would drive Athos wild. This want-need-love was a wave spreading through him and choking back sobs of relief he fucked Athos, running his hands over every reachable inch of him, stroking his skin and fondling him to full erection.

Somehow, someway they rolled over on the bed until Athos was astride him, riding his cock. Every movement was a thrill, every squeeze of muscle pushed Porthos closer. With both his hands on Athos he worked him, tugging back the hood, running a finger over that precious strip of sensitive skin then stroking him, up and down, until he was gasping from the absolute pleasure of it.

“I’ll have you always,” breathed Porthos, his finger and thumb clamped tight around the root of Athos’ cock. “I’ll fuck you forever. I’ll love you forever.”

“Please,” begged Athos. “Please. _Please_.”

Strung as tight as a bow, wanton and pleading, this was the Athos that Porthos desired the most, but he loved the man in all ways possible and, if granted the opportunity, would spend the entirety of his days with him as well as the secret intimacy of every night.

Releasing the base of his cock to work him off good and proper Porthos held Athos firmly at the hip and rammed into him: once, twice, three times, coming hot inside him as Athos cried out and slumped forward against his chest.

“I’d die without you,” said Porthos, turning them until they were on their sides then folding himself around Athos and dragging the covers up to keep them warm.

“An exaggeration, but the sentiment is much appreciated,” murmured Athos. “Despite the fact you’re a lying wretch I love you and can’t wait to spend the contents of my coffers on you.”

Porthos, to his surprise, had never once considered the fact he was sleeping with a rich man. All his life he’d desired the security that came from titled deeds and a fortune, yet now that he had access to both it seemed entirely insignificant.

“I have all I need right here,” he said, resting his palm over the steady pump of Athos’ heart.

“I could do with some clothes,” came a voice from the other side of the doors that sounded suspiciously like Aramis.

“A thoroughbred would be nice,” added d’Artagnan. “And a new rapier.”

“And some scented oils from Turkey.”

“Tobacco would be good.” 

“Those earwigging little deviants,” said Porthos, mortified that their reunion fuck had not been quite so private after all. “I should give them both a good hiding.”

“Save your spanking hand for me,” said Athos with a smirk. ”Because I intend to spend the rest of the day being more deviant with you than you could possibly imagine.”

All other thoughts flew out of Porthos’ head as he bent forward to kiss Athos hard on the mouth, reaching down to cup that firm, white arse in preparation for the fun that would occur later. After all they had a lovely house at their disposal right now and they may as well make the most of it before returning to Paris to live out a Musketeer's meagre existence at their tiny home in the Rue Allent.


End file.
